


Personal

by Secret_ninja1



Category: Joker Game (Anime)
Genre: fukumoto beats up oikawa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 22:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10545110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secret_ninja1/pseuds/Secret_ninja1
Summary: Oikawa was under Fukumoto's watch for years.It wasn’t until his target had made an unpredictable error that Fukumoto snapped.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrepidationChance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrepidationChance/gifts).



> This is a gift for Trep! Hope you like it!

To become a spy, one must throw away every sense of moral obligation to erase who you used to be. Disguising yourself and maintaining your cover required a clean slate and absolute focus. Emotions transform into weakness, and weakness is not necessary in a spy. They cloud your judgement and force irrational decisions that may be detrimental to the mission.

Fukumoto did not need emotions.

Shiozuka Hajime and Kusanagi Yukihito were the personas he created, personalities he built to deceive the link to his objective. It was vital that he remained hidden to complete it, but each day Fukumoto shadowed his target, the more frustrated he became and his resolve began to waver.

It wasn’t until his target had made an unpredictable error that Fukumoto snapped.

Tonight, Fukumoto donned a new cover, someone without the use of a name, that waited out in the neon-lit streets by the night club he frequented. His hair was kept in his usual style under a hat and he wore a plain shirt and suspenders, wide-framed glasses replacing his usual Shiozuka ones.

He loitered about, chatting up drunks that passed by and tourists that were looking for a fun night out, Fukumoto gladly pointing to them every place he had memorized during his time in Shanghai. Where there was fun, there was money being spent, and that was how the world worked. The happy couple was bound to get caught up in the booze and entertainment like everyone else; who was he to deny them such luxury?

He waited, every minute a calculated anticipation until his watch hand struck two and the front doors of the dance hall swung open. Fukumoto didn’t need to see who it was, his target’s schedule imprinted in his mind after watching him for so long.

Fukumoto pulled the rim of his hat down and his hands went into his pockets, his eyes peeking out just far enough to keep his gaze hidden but his focus on the man in white. He remained fifteen paces behind, his shoulders brushing against other bystanders that were walking the other way. The streets were crowded tonight, and that was just what Fukumoto needed.

The way his target was walking, feet just a tad unsteady, and shoulders lax as he walked home; the smell of alcohol was faint, but enough.

The cards were playing in his favor, it seemed.

Fukumoto maintained his cover for several blocks, the street congestion clearing to a manageable degree, and it gave him his chance. The entrance to the neighborhood cut off vendors and the flashing signs of Shanghai dimmed into background until there were only flickering street lamps that marked Fukumoto as more than just a shadow.

Fukumoto counted the steps:

One.

Two.

Three.

Four…

Then, the street lamp went out.

Fukumoto moved.

His body felt light as his feet pushed against the road and his hand reached for the back collar of his target’s shirt, a furious strength gripping the fabric and jerking the unsuspecting body into the nearby alleyway, his back colliding with the wall.

Fukumoto registered the man’s movement near his waist, his hands reaching for the gun hidden under his clothes even in his drunken state. He was quick to stop him, grasping his wrist and pulling it back with such a force that his own fingers could feel the joint pop out of place.

His target reacted by turning his head up to scream, Fukumoto’s other hand grasping the loose strands of his hair and pulling his head back before slamming it into the wall. A dull thud before Fukumoto met eyes with his target, Oikawa’s face twisted in pain as he yelped and tried to fight his assailant off him.

Fukumoto didn’t let him have the chance, the spy stepping closer and catching Oikawa’s unharmed hand into his own and pushing his middle finger back until it snapped. Fukumoto heard the satisfying howl that came from Oikawa before he covered his mouth with his hand and squeezed his jaw.

He took one more look at Oikawa before he jabbed his knee hard into his stomach, the man not even able to hunch down out of reflex, Fukumoto’s right hand still on his face and holding him up. The other gasped, spit covering the inside of Fukumoto’s palm as Oikawa struggled to catch his breath from the hit.

Then Fukumoto let go and punched him in the jaw, Oikawa reeling back and tripping over himself as he landed on the damp ground of the alley. He was flailing to get back on his feet, but Fukumoto was quicker and he dropped to his knees, blocking Oikawa’s only escape by hovering over him and pulling him by his shirt. He drew his arm back and aimed for the man’s eye this time, his fist landing with painful precision, once and then twice.

Again, and again, and again.

Oikawa’s hands were struggling to hold Fukumoto’s arm, his body too weak to pull him away and protect himself. Once Fukumoto realized how useless his effort became, he let go and Oikawa’s upper body slumped to the ground without his support.

Now with both hands free, Fukumoto saw no reason to hold back any longer. He hit him, over and over again, Oikawa’s head tossing to the side with each heavy blow like he was nothing more than a rag doll, unable to offer any resistance to the attacks.

It felt amazing.

Every hit felt like as though a weight was lifting from Fukumoto, his bleeding hands mixing with Oikawa’s own that had dripped from his lips some time ago, the oozing red splattering against the pure white of Oikawa’s clothes and tainting them.

Just as he tainted that boy.

Just as the city had tainted him.

This man was a _monster_.

His fists kept pounding against the soft surface of cartilage and the sharp texture of bone, one such hit striking his nose and it crunched under his fist. As he retracted, Fukumoto could see the fresh wave of blood dripping down his face and over his mouth, his lips stained with his own bodily fluids.

How dare he. How dare he lay a hand on that child.

_How dare he._

Fukumoto struck his front teeth. His index finger had cut along the edge of them, his teeth scrapping his skin and Fukumoto’s hand hurt, but the gurgled scream that came from the man below him was enough for him to ignore the way his fingers popped and stung as he tightened them into another fist.

 _He didn’t deserve to live_.

He was sure anyone nearby would have heard Oikawa by now, but the crime rate was so high in the city that no one would have bothered to check on him. Every day, new bodies were discovered and new crimes were reported to the police. Murders were not uncommon.

Fukumoto took a few more swings at him before the man’s eyes became watery and were barely open, Oikawa beginning to slip in and out of consciousness. His mouth was busted, his teeth chipped and tongue soaked in blood as he coughed and fought to keep from choking. His nose was misaligned and swollen, his eyes bruised along with the rest of his face and Fukumoto was certain his skull had been fractured due to the pool of blood around his head.

He wasn’t finished yet.

Fukumoto pushed himself up and stood, his legs cramping from the sudden change of position before he swung his leg forward and his foot dug into Oikawa’s chest. The man could only gasp, his body turning onto his back to cradle his injury with his dislocated wrist. Fukumoto never let him rest before he brought his foot down again and dug it into his left rib cage, his heel grinding down and twisting the skin into the indentation he created. From the jerk he saw Oikawa make, he must have hit his spleen.

He stomped harder and pushed, watching the muscles around his stomach convulse until Oikawa finally vomited. The substance was darker, an almost black liquid that sputtered out from his throat in small gushes that flooded down his neck and mixed with the mess below.

Fukumoto watched as Oikawa’s eyes were on him, his gaze wavering as he struggled to turn on his side so that he wouldn’t choke. Fukumoto didn’t give him that option. He planted his foot down on his chest, holding him there.

Oikawa struggled helplessly, though his movements were nothing but odd twitches and sounds as he fought to breathe through the vile that accumulated around his nostrils and mouth. His broken nose made it near impossible to breathe, and without that second airway, Oikawa knew his fate.

Fukumoto could hear Yuuki’s words playing in his head as he watched Oikawa, the ideology of their agency. Fukumoto had completed his mission as a spy; the Ministry of War would receive the letter that Sergeant Honma had written and the military would discover just what the Captain had been sweeping under the rug for years.

As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t doing this as Fukumoto.

He was doing this for himself.


End file.
